


Flirting With Disaster

by horse (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 21:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/horse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Father Time musings - the kids try to lead normal lives post-SBURB, but Dave just can't seem to get the hang of it. Fuelled by a great song: Sirens - Elefant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's not the first time you've graced Casa de Egbert with your presence, nor do you suppose it'll be the last. You've been visiting John a lot, now that you both have the opportunity, and to be honest it's probably the reason you've been keeping sane. With Bro gone, the apartment is so fucking empty. 

It's cool and all, not having to watch your back every ten nanoseconds. But the emptiness, the stagnant air that wafts through the expanse of your living space, is just an ever-present, sickening reminder that your Bro is never going to come home again. He's never going to interrupt your Xbox shenanigans to strife over you eating the last hot pocket. He's not going to restock the cupboards with sharp objects anymore. He's not going to forget to pay the electricity bill and join you in fort-building and accidentally set a sheet on fire with a really tacky horse shaped candle. He's sure as shit not going to flash step into your room to plant Lil Cal on your face, just so he can get a short, barely audible laugh at your scream when you wake up with a horrific puppet mug in your grill.

Yeah. You kind of need this.

You think -- well, you know -- that John needs the company, too. Jade visiting either of you is out of the question, unless it's around the holidays, because she's just way too far to begin to consider hopping on a plane willy-nilly to hang out for a week or two. You get it. Rose is really busy, but she makes it when she can. You usually visit John together, but she's got school. You don't blame her for immersing herself in academia. You would too if you had more confidence in yourself to actually achieve something. No, you're just cruising right now, trying not to have a nervous breakdown and stuff. You're thinking of moving out here, actually. You were going to ask Rose to move in with you before she went and applied for university. You don't know. John's probably going to do the same. You're the only complacent piece of crap out of all your friends.

The house smells like icing and fresh laundry. So different from what you're used to. The smell almost makes you angry sometimes. Jealous, you guess. John got to keep his Dad. You lost Bro.

But that's dangerous thinking.

You high five the loser as you stride through the front door, inwardly lamenting that he's got half a foot on you. His almond-shaped eyes pinch with a large, toothy grin directed at you, which you ignore, of course, opting instead to adjust your aviators and shove your hands in the pouch of your pullover. His voice is deeper now, but smooth and still boyish. You don't think he'll ever outgrow it. Young face, young voice. You already look older than him despite the height difference (you stand at a modest 5'9”, alright). Dark circles under your eyes. Your jawline has since become more pronounced, features a bit more adult, body a bit fuller and broader. You've got a ways to go, and you can already tell you won't compare to Bro at any point in your life, but you've stopped looking at yourself in the mirror anyway, because all you've been able to see for the past four months are dead Daves.

After some idle chit chat and standing around, you both slink away to his room to watch a movie and pig out. Admittedly you have not been doing well where feeding yourself is concerned, so being over at John's is always kind of nice. Not only does the house actually have fucking food stocked away -- food that you can eat -- but John's dad is always gifting you with home cooked dinners. You think John takes them for granted – he's got no right to be picky, not in your eyes.

You don't care that his father's eyes linger on you as you scarf down meatloaf, table manners thrust aside in favour of cramming your mouth with as much delicious nourishment as you can handle. You guess he pities you, for some hideous reason or another. The fact used to bother you before you lost all semblance of shame and dignity and resigned yourself to a life of not giving a single fuck. Like you have the energy to care. You're as polite as you know how to be, because you're genuinely thankful, and that's more than you can offer most times. When you finish eating you pick up your plate and place it, delicately, in the sink, resuming position at the table to sit through another conversation that begins with all three of you and ends with John and his dad in an exclusive exchange that has little to nothing to do with you. Which is fine, because sometimes you don't have any input. Sometimes you just want to stare at the edge of the table and wish you could go back to four years ago.

John eventually saves you from private requiem. Tugs at your sleeve like a five year old to get your attention. Again you feel his father's eyes on you, and turn your head to meet them, only he averts his gaze as soon as he catches the slightest movement on your end. You squint slightly behind your shades, not that he can see, and then swivel back to John with a forced smirk.

 

It's midnight, and you assume you're the only one awake in the house. You're not used to this schedule. You're used to staying up all night and sleeping in until four in the afternoon. So you're just laying there in your sleeping bag, staring at the ceiling, waiting to make sure that John is really asleep before you quietly get up and slink out of the room. The red box of cigarettes in your hand is bent and wrinkled and smashed. There are three left. John doesn't know you picked up the habit, and you'd prefer to keep it that way, so you head to the back porch to quiet your nerves in solitude. Only when you slide the door open, his father is at your left, pipe in hand, staring at you with kind eyes, looking a bit taken aback and perhaps exasperated. You can't turn around now, you'll look like a massive dick. The cigarette in your mouth has basically sealed your fate. You nod your head at him, because you don't know what else to do, and sit in the chair across from him because you are definitely not going to sit next to him.

Father Egbert has a strong jaw and light eyes, which is why you can't pin the Egberts as strictly Asian. Not with that last name, anyway. He's got more colour than his son, but they're both nicely tanned, in the way that looks attractively natural and not produced by hours spent in the sun. His hair, visible now that his hat is off, is almost black, greying at the sides, slicked back in a professional and sleek manner that suits his gentlemanly aura. There was a reason you had a large, embarrassing crush on John, and right now it's dawning on you that he must have gotten his good genes from the man you are currently staring at as you light your Marlboro 100. You know the flame from the lighter will make the defense of your shades obsolete for a second, so your eyes flick to your fingers, and you suck as the fire hits the end.

“Now, that's a terrible habit for a young man, David.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the interest. I am so dissatisfied with this chapter ahah but I hope you like it

You exhale quickly, congesting yourself. What the fuck is this? The guy is literally puffing at his pipe as he condemns you for smoking. You're not really sure how to react at first. You know you've let a look of incredulousness onto your otherwise placid face, and boy is that distressing, because you've been fighting even harder to keep your cool with your brother dead and gone and NOT PRESENT to beat you into shape.

“Says the geezer who's practically surgically attached to his pipe.” Your face burns as you say it. For all your pounds of fabricated bravado, you can't find it in you to justify talking back to this man. “And my name isn't David. It's Dave.” The second half of your rebuttal is considerably less bold, in fact, it's basically a mumble. You bring the cigarette to your lips and puff defiantly, eyebrows twitching to furrow.

“Pardon, pardon.” He replies in what you can only assume is mild amusement, because the corners of his lips are curling upwards, and wow, that is kind of annoying. “I just know that if my son-”

“Well I'm not your son.” You state flatly. You don't know why it hurt to hear him say that. Probably because Bro wouldn't have given a rat's ass if you chain-smoked until you had to hold a mic to a hole in your throat to speak. You're jealous, maybe, that John has someone who cares if he's taking care of himself or not. Like, really cares. Coddling. You think you could stand to be coddled like that. “It's not even a big deal anyway, and you should know – it's not like I'm scared to die, I've-” You catch yourself. Does he even know about the game? Probably not. Best to bypass that fuckery. “I've come to terms with it. C'est la vie. Come what may. Hell or high water. Point is as long as you're sucking on that ridiculous instrument you've got no room to lecture me. So whatever, just let me be me. Wild and free. Nobody can tame this mustang, I am my own woman.”

You want to laugh, but John's dad is just staring at you. He looks like he wants to laugh himself, eyes a little wide, grin lop-sided but tight with the effort of trying not to smile. He brings the pipe to his mouth and falls back into his chair – you hadn't noticed him leaning forward in the first place - raises one leg up to rest on the other, his slacks shifting so that you can see the navy argyle sock, previously hidden. Of course.

“I'm not saying you are, _Dave_ ,” The way he says your name comes off as patronising, but it's light-hearted rather than the variety you're used to - more like paternal chiding. “All I'm saying is that a young man should be more conscious of what goes into his body.” With that he's leaning forward again, hand stretched out in your direction. At first you stare at it awkwardly, not knowing what the hell he wants, but it's not hard to conclude that you're supposed to be putting the remainder of your nicotine stash in the custody of his palm.

“No way. All roads closed for construction. We're gonna neglect this shit for a few years while you follow your GPS to the end of the street, then bitch about the illegal U-turn you're gonna have to make to double back, because there is literally no way I am giving you my last pair of smokes. These cost money. I spent that money. Shared a heart-felt, teary good bye with that money. And here you are, all pretension and no empathy, taking away my one and only sanctuary. Well I say, nay. Nay to you, sir.” Satisfied with yourself, you sit back and cross your arms. He doesn't move. You shift nervously for a moment, dislodging a hand to pull the cigarette from your mouth and take a proper drag. He still doesn't move, even wiggles his fingers a bit. God. This man is relentless.

“Strider.”

You growl like the petulant child you are and always will be, all but slamming the pack into his hand, crushing it further. In your frustration you linger, only to fall back timidly. His features are even more striking up close, and you are certain that is an observation you are not at liberty to make, what with him being your best friend's god damn father. But he had seen you falter, had watched the uncertainty and insecurity wrack your rickety frame of confidence. You don't like this at all; you're slipping up.

“You know,” His expression has since sobered, and he's looking down at your pack with contempt. “I know you'll be the first one to shrug me off, Dave,” You see his eyebrows lift and your own fall. Your head is tilted down but your eyes are on him, peeking out from your shades, and your arms are still tightly crossed. He didn't have to put emphasis on your name, he really didn't. “But I worry about you. You're alone in that house. Do you go to school? Do you work? How do you see to your living expenses?”

There's a lengthy pause before you realise he's done, waiting for you to respond to his little interrogation. You begrudgingly comply.

“Not that it's any of your business, but my brother did have money. I've been working, too.”

It's evasive as hell, but you're not about to tell him how you get your money. Bro did have a lot to leave behind, but it wasn't going to last you forever, you're not a complete dumbass. Turns out there are a lot of kids your age who'll cough up cash and cigarettes for a hand job behind the bleachers, or a blow job in a public bathroom. There are a lot of men, too, but after a particularly nasty experience you'd sworn off people you couldn't beat the shit out of.

You took up stripping for a while. It was the only job you could land at your age where you could actually earn money, and to be honest, it wasn't something that had ever bothered you much. The stage was as good place to learn how to feign self confidence as it was to make ends meet. You went back as you were wont to do; a dog that returns to the same spot he knows is safe. A common theme in the Greek tragedy of your life, as it were.

Here you are, knocked down a few hundred pegs, worse for the wear, staring at perhaps the only person you shouldn't lie to.

“You're always welcome here.”

God. What is wrong with you. The probability that he's saying this to you out of moral obligation is astoundingly high, but it hits you like a mad bull, strapped to a freight train, stocked with tonnes and tonnes of bricks. Your hand knocks, stupidly, into the incongruous existence of your sunglasses. The absent-minded motion of your hand to wipe the tears from your face completely bypasses your internal orders to hide all evidence of emotion. You're vulnerable. You hate it.

Egbert rises with the cognizance of the shift in mood and moves towards you, and you let him – more because you are cemented to the chair by your shame than anything else. You look up at him, conscious that your face is wild with anger and fear that heretofore had been bottled and buried in the sand of your gut. 

“It's okay.” It isn't okay in the slightest, but that doesn't stop you from rising up, slowly, after a moment of hazy consideration. Your gaze is locked on his chest, broader than yours, but everything about him is thin and graceful and genteel. When his arms encircle you, the solid quality of his body becomes that much more apparent. It reminds you of Bro, in a way. Not that you ever hugged like this, but, more when you were very little, when he'd actually hold you. 

Egbert doesn't smell like cheap body wash and weed. He doesn't smell like he's just waded through a sea of Chinese takeout while strapped in leather. The first thing to hit your nose is cinnamon. You are wholly unaccustomed to that smell outside of cereal and junk food - you sure as hell didn't have a spice rack at home. Underneath that is something like maple syrup, or brown sugar, you aren't sure, but it's something sweet. Your face is buried in the crook of his neck as you cry without so much as a whimper. You won't disgrace yourself further with the soundtrack of your misery. You don't even want him to know you're still crying, but you're kind of getting his shirt wet, and just the fact that he doesn't mind it makes you swallow a sob.

He rubs your back with one hand, slowly, in the way that's less like someone who wants to fuck and more like someone who wants to protect. This species of physical contact is so foreign to you and it makes you so sad, so bitter. You'd lived with Bro your whole life, and in that time he'd only let you know you weren't completely worthless a handful of times. John's dad barely knows who you are and he's already given you more than you'd ever gotten in thirteen years.

You pick your head off his shoulder and pull back, removing your aviators, raising your sleeve to wipe your nose. He blocks you, gently, with a soft “none of that, son,” and hands you a piece of cloth. It's a handkerchief. You almost can't believe it, and you'd laugh if you weren't busy breaking down.

“I can't just blow my nose on your fancy napkin.” Your voice is subdued and stuffed up. He takes the thing and pinches your nose through the fabric, and you snort involuntarily, and then sneeze, because that, too, smells of cinnamon. All you can do is blink, and then look at him. It dawns on you that he's never seen you without your shades on, and for all his tact he is staring straight into the crimson of your irises, perhaps not yet aware that he's ogling his son's best friend. You know that look, and for once in your sorry life you aren't so much as insulted as you are curious.

“Thanks.” You dig for any excuse to get him to hold you again, but they all seem wafer thin. The feeling of being safe around another person is extremely addicting, you conclude as you watch him, lingering. You're both lingering now.

“Come inside. I'll put the kettle on.” 

You watch him as he navigates the kitchen, and it's like watching Bro on the roof. He's in his element - glides elegantly from point to point, oxfords glistening when he turns sharply on his heel, working quickly without seeming at all like he's in a hurry. Hands carved from soap grip the handle of a traditional, silver kettle, placing it on the stove top once he's filled it with tap water. You swallow as he backs away from the flame. Before you see it happen, your arm is outstretched, fingers brushing the fabric of his sleeve – soft and probably expensive. You see your tear stains at his shoulder and falter, but he's already turned to face you, managing to look skeptic and welcoming at the same time.

You put a hand on his chest and curl your fingers slightly. You feel him stiffen, but he doesn't move, just stands there, tall and sturdy. The juxtaposition of your bodies relates to you just how different you are, in all those many respects. You want his strength, his poise. His certainty. You have none of those things. Not so much as a teaspoon. When you meet his gaze you know you've thrown your hand face up on the table, opened Pandora’s magical fucking box. The intensity of the moment is enough to make the tips of your fingers burn, and when he kisses you it's like the rest of you catches fire.

The whistle of the kettle picks up gradually and you're catapulted back into reality by the sound. Egbert quietly reaches out to slide it forward , then turn off the flame. At first you think he's going to come to his senses and turn away from you, as if all that was a daydream; instead he lets you close in to kiss along his jaw, which you are almost disappointed to find quite smooth. The smell of his aftershave which must have lingered there since this morning makes up for it, and you wonder how it's managed to endure his work and cooking and other gentlemanly escapades. You feel his fingertips on your neck as they slowly ascend.

“Let me at least make the tea.”

“Fuck the tea.”

For a moment you are both paralysed by the bite of the curse word, but your own desperation cuts the moment short. This time it's you who initiates lip-lock, greeted with the taste of peppercorn and tobacco. You're glad that he's playing along with you instead of stopping to make sure this is what you want, like you're some dumb kid. You like that he doesn't think you're stupid. There is a nagging part of your brain that reminds you that this is all probably pity, he's just humouring you until you get it out of your system – and you promptly shut that section of your brain off. This is the first time in a long time you've actually wanted intimacy, needed it, with another person. Someone who won't discard you after the fact. And you hope to fucking god he won't, because you think you could love this man.

To your surprise he backs you into the counter. When you pull away to look at him, to see the concentrated expression and the severity of his brow, your stomach flips and your cheeks burn. You're scared to know what you look like. You realise you don't really care.

He doesn't want to do anything unbecoming in the kitchen, and you can't say you didn't expect that. The walk to his room is a little awkward, but it gives you time to think. It's not that you're going to change your mind, that you find much wrong with this situation besides the obvious (screwing around with your friends father while he sleeps is probably not the mark of a responsible young man). It's not that you're unsure about the man you're following, you know his game.

You're battling yourself. A part of you wants you to stop this right here, right now, lest you severely fuck everything up like you know you will - shit's inevitable. The other part is so starved for this. You don't know that you have it in you to consider turning around, much less actually do it. You're not the worst he could do, you say to yourself as you step into his room, unable to shake the knowledge of that being a pretty transparent remark.

His bed is stiff but not uncomfortable. You fall back on to it, bouncing with the force of your drop. It looks like he finds it amusing, but he doesn't waste time in his descent, and his body against yours is perniciously wonderful. You think about all the times you've been in this position. How many times you've stared at a ceiling, drifted off to another place. You can't remember the last time you didn't have to force yourself to feel something. It's deeply unnerving, how much you care about this moment. The hands at your sides. The lips at your neck. The weight on your chest.

You have never felt more naked than now, when he strips you of your last defense, and you feel like curling in on yourself. But he takes you for what you are; skin and bones, you know it, used, edges fraying. His eyes are cruel in their kindness, hands careful and unpunishing. You feel so unworthy. But your own hands are on him anyway, sometimes sliding, sometimes gripping. You're afraid to scratch, to treat him like another shallow endeavor - so you are gentle with him, too, until you know what else he'll allow you to be. When he rolls the condom on you are strangely aware of everything that's happening, and your nerves come back to you like a swarm of angry bees until you distract yourself with the view of his physique. There is dark hair on his arms, legs, chest... your eyes stop at his navel where a trail of similarly dark hair begins. You're still scared of older men, and Egbert isn't an exception, but you can swallow the brunt of your anxieties because you know he won't be like everyone else. He didn't walk you into this room to take advantage of you. In fact, when you look back on this, the sly bastard made sure that the only person who's to blame for this consummation is you.

Everything is an overwhelming blur. The light kisses just below your ear become hap-hazard nips at your neck. Your mouth is sloppy at his collar. His quiet exhalations become laboured breaths. You pant gracelessly, unbridled in your moaning, and he has to quiet you maybe five hundred times before you learn to bite your lip. You wish you could shut yourself up, but as long as he's going to work your dick like that, you're going to sing like a damn bird. My god – then he's fucking you, and it feels so wrong to call it fucking but that's all you know. He leans down so close to you, so close that your noses touch, and your hands ghost up to the sides of his face to anchor him there. You can't kiss him, you've forgotten how in your euphoria, but you try and keep your eyes open so that you remember everything. He thrusts in you roughly, seems apologetic, almost, until you vocalise your approval and wrap your legs around his middle, pushing against him, showing him you can take it like a man. And he appeases you, then, stops treating you like you're fragile, but never slacks in his control, never once forgets that you are all bark and no bite. How he can understand you so thoroughly, when there are people you have known forever who wouldn't guess you had any emotion other than ambivalent content, almost makes you angry.

You finish before him, throwing your head back because you can't take it anymore, though you would have liked it to last forever despite your body's protests. You want to scream the name you don't know, but you don't think he'd appreciate you screaming anything with his son in the house, so you settled on a dragged out, broken, almost inaudible whine. He's not far behind you, lets out the most unassuming noise you've ever heard when he comes, and you smile genuinely at the sound before you're aware of yourself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow sorry this took forever. Also if I failed to mention it or listed some other age by accident I had imagined Dave as around 17/18 at the beginning of this. Just wanted to clear that up. If I made any comments stating otherwise I'll go back and fix them asap. This is the first time I've written John AND Rose so idk just forgive me in general, for everything `H`

He doesn't let you smoke afterwards, but you don't really mind.

The next few days blur together. Days spent with John, nights spent with his father. You learn his name is James. He has a collection of expensive pipes, and his head is a library of cookbooks and etiquette manuals. He's partial to sweets, the kind that make your heart as full as your stomach. At first he doesn't like the idea of letting you suck him off, but you can be very persuasive.

You start to get nervous, get to thinking that you're in a little too deep. How do you hide this from John? Should you even try? Does he already know? Your questions are answered all at once on Thursday morning, when you wake up from a nightmare and realise you have fallen asleep in James Egbert's bed, and there is John in the doorway, staring at you.

His face looks funny. Not the hilarious kind of funny. There is no familiar grin. He doesn't even look angry – more like that time you'd punched him in the face for making a remark about Bro. That shocked, pale, wide-eyed and slack-jawed expression is something that makes you feel like you're going to throw up, which you do, later on. Many times.

John has long since driven to another friend's, and you are packing hurriedly. What the fuck are you doing? What the fuck were you thinking? You were just going to settle down with Dad fucking Egbert and call it a day? Like you aren't the worst fucking decision that man could ever make? You aren't his work in progress. You are a lost cause. It's time for you to come to terms with that, and get out of here. He sees you packing. You can't handle anymore of these dark-haired innocents gawking at you from the other side of an open door, so you keep your back to him. 

“You don't have to go”. It's not fair. His voice is smooth like good brandy, the kind he drinks on the rocks, like a handsome parody of the quintessential 1950's gentleman. You can't see his face, but the emotion in it would probably change your mind. You know you have to go. “He'll come around.” But that's the thing, gramps, you don't want to be around for the process. A process with any number of outcomes. Risk the chance of a shitty one? No thank you. The cons outweigh the pros. You stop with your hands in your suitcase, staring at a sock you can't find the match for. He's going to realise you're the shit end of the stick soon, anyway. You can't be in a relationship with anyone, much less him. You must be out of your hormone-infested, pickled little mind. Eventually you turn to him, and he's looking at you like he wants to say something else. So you wait. You wait with watery eyes and jittery fingers for him to say something that will make this pounding head ache stop, and let the air back into your lungs. His lips move and you want to throw up all over again. For fuck's sake, you just can't handle this right now.

“I love you, Dave.”

You're not sure what he means. You're not sure you want to believe it's what you think it means. He's lying. It's been a few days. You can't fall in love in a few days. What right does he have to throw that at you? To try and make you stay by unloading that truckload of mind-fucking bullshit on you? None, that's what. You're going to suffocate in this room.

“I need to go for a few days.” You say as you brush past him. But the days are going to be weeks. And the weeks are going to be months. That's how it ends up.

He calls. He sends letters. You move from Texas to California; new phone, new address. New life. 

Aforementioned new life starts out on a horrific note. For the first few days you think you've made the worst mistake of all by leaving Washington, but you drown out the buzz of uncertainty with alcohol. You're distracted enough to write a script. You're handsome enough to get connections. You're clever enough to get shit done. It's not even a half a year before money pools in from every direction, and you're on your way to actually being successful at something instead of destroying everything you touch. You get back in contact with Rose and Jade, but keep yourself cut off from John, even with all their pleading.

You shoot up three inches, develop some admirable muscle tone from Taekwondo and Bikram yoga. You have an actual jawline now. Your baby face becomes more defined, your body is now leaning further away from jail-bait, closer to lanky underwear model. You can deal with that.

Your looks get you just as much attention as your work does, which means you don't find it awfully difficult to fill the space in your bed – not that you ever had much of a problem in that department. Rumours spread, a reputation emerges, but for the most part you're content to live your life the way you want to, because for the time being, it works. You think you're happy. Like, you count all the reasons you have to be when you look in the mirror. Just like all those ridiculous self-help books say. And boy do you have reasons – a whole book's worth, maybe even a series. So yeah, for a few months it's smooth sailing, half-assed interviews, paparazzi evasion escapades, and sicknasty house parties.

Surrounded by drugs as you are, you don't like to touch the stuff. You know what that shit does to people. You've seen enough to know. But there you are, flanked by two really, really attractive women, staring at an equally attractive French guy's ass as he guides you into a bedroom. In retrospect you should've known where he was leading you and why he was leading you there. At this kind of party there are only two reasons, and hell if you aren't down for one of them. But you should've known. He was sniffing what was probably ketamine while you two danced, and something in the pit of your stomach tells you to high-tail it the hell out of there, but his hands are down your pants and you're gone.

You wake up alone in the house and most if not all of your things are gone or trashed. Well-played, Pierre.

You spent the next 45 minutes stumbling around your home trying to gauge the damage. It's only a few things that are actually missing, you realise. You feel sick and unsafe. Bro's favourite katanas are gone. You had his shades in a glass box in a room basically dedicated to him, and both of those are smashed. You lock yourself in the bathroom for two hours, contemplate calling the police. You guess you should.

You don't.

Instead you emerge from the bathroom and kick at some broken glass in one of your living rooms. Pick up the phone and cancel your cards. You stop going out, start drinking more. You sell your ludicrously enormous and gaudy mansion and get yourself a loft some odd miles away. While you're unpacking, you find the suitcase you remember using when you left Washington. It's impossible to stop yourself from at least tearing up, so you let it happen, and for curiosity's sake you check all the compartments for anything you might've forgotten. It's empty except for the left side pocket, where you find a business card. You turn it over and read the name. JAMES EGBERT. In a really awful typeface that looks like it could be Engravers MT. Fuck's sake. You laugh, and watch your tears stain the card. You pick up your phone and shakily dial the number – only it takes about 3 tries. Touch-screen bullshit.

His voice hasn't changed in the, what has it been, two? Three years, since you've left? Still exactly how you remember – deep and airy. Almost sighing. Somehow weighted, though, with stability; it's sure and convincing. You miss it. You miss him. You hang up without saying anything.

The airport is crowded as hell and it makes you uneasy. You spend most of your free time playing Tetris and Jewel Box on your phone, ignoring everyone, avoiding eyes, avoiding everything. You don't eat because you can't. Man are you ridiculous. They start boarding and no one has to tell you to get up twice, and before you know it you're on a northbound plane with no plan and a lot of anxiety.

First Class is just ruse. You get a big ass chair and some champagne, but everyone is annoying as fuck even when they're not trying to joke with you. Maybe your incredulous level of agitation is due to your anxiety, but whatever it is, you just want to be there already. Destination Dad Egbert. Who probably doesn't remember you, and even if he does, you don't suppose the memory of your person has aged into anything like fine wine. You listen to your brother's old music for the next two and a half hours.

You remember where the house is, how could you not? But something's really weird about the one that the taxi drops you off in front of. It looks different. You are 100% positive you have the address right, you only spent your god damn life here. It looks... empty. Like no one's been here for a long time. The driveway is empty. You don't see a realtor sign anywhere, but you can't shake the feeling that no one lives here anymore. You're at a dead end with no leads. Fuck all. You sit in front of the door, let your head bang against it a few times before you slump down. You think of calling Rose, but she's just going to judge the piss out of you for running back here like a spoilt little shit. Chasing something you should have let go of a while ago. It shouldn't have even existed, to be honest. It's not five minutes into your self-loathing pityfest before she calls you. The ringtone bothers you enough to answer after a few seconds.

“Dave.”  
“Rose.”  
“I heard about what happened. Why didn't you tell me?”

You lick your lips and let out an obnoxiously loud sigh.

“It's all taken care of, so there was nothing to discuss. Which is kind of funny, you might say, considering I can never seem to shut the fuck up, but yeah, I mean, that's how it goes, sister. And I mean sister in a non-familial context, like, you know, more jazz club hey how ya doin' fine lady of the night, and on that note definitely not in a religious way, 'cause God knows you ain't no saint-”  
“Please, spare me.”  
“Yeah, okay.”  
“Where are you right now?”

You rub your eyes.

“Washington.”  
“...Washington.”  
“Washington.”  
“I would say that wasn't the answer I was expecting, but I can't say I'm really that shocked, either.”  
“If you give me some 'I saw this coming' horsecrap I will hang up where I stand.”  
“Are you even standing?”  
“That is totally not even close to the point.”  
“The point being that if I'm correct in assuming a more specific address, I'd be inclined to let you know you're not going to find what you're looking for there.”  
“I am twelve steps ahead of you, Lalonde.”

The way your voice cracks betrays you, but you don't bother to be nervous about it. Rose would know you're upset if she never heard you at all. Her psychic abilities far surpass human comprehension. She is an alien mindreader from the far outer reaches of the galaxy. Wow, you should really write that down.

“Call John, please. He's been trying to talk to you for months. You're just being stubborn. I'm assuming that this sudden and pleasant quiet is your silent agreement, so I am hanging up now. If I don't get word of you doing what you ought to do I am fully prepared to deal with you in the manner I see fit. Goodbye, then.”

You stutter in declination, but she's already hung up. The only thing left to do is just what she's said. It's about time. You can't avoid the guy who used to be your best friend forever - as a matter of fact, you're kind of a massive chump for avoiding him this long. How old are you, twelve? You scroll down your contacts and hesitate over the name before making the call. Well this is gonna be ten levels of awkward. But it's way overdue.

"Woah, hey."

There's a bit of a pause on your end before you say anything, mostly because you're trying to figure out how to open. How do you just say 'Hello, sup'? So then what else is there?

"I'm sorry."  
"W-what?"  
"I said I'm sorry."

This time it's John that's quiet, and you feel your stomach churn. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Why do you ever listen to Rose? Who died and made her ambassador? Why does your life suck so much?

"Wow I'm-uh... hold on a second, my room-mate's home."

You hear some ruffling and shifting. A door opens and closes. The squeak of mattress springs bouncing up and down to accommodate a boy who is probably still taller than you.

"It's okay." You finally hear him say, and it's almost like you can feel him smiling through the phone. You absently wonder if he still has a gnarly overbite.

"It's kinda not that okay. I mean I'm not gonna contest your forgiveness, but what I will do, finally, is take some responsibility for myself. Damn, I never dreamed I'd put a sentence like that together. But here I am, a real life adult. I'm even wearing cuff links right now. Willingly. Can you imagine." You hear a light laugh on the other end. It makes you kind of sad, because you can hear a lot more in it than you want to. "...Anyway, I'm sorry for what I did, and the stuff I did after that." That doesn't sound sincere at all. C'mon. "I was going to tell you. Or... maybe I wasn't. I guess you can maybe see why. Anyway that's pretty far in the past, and I guess the worst part is that I waited so long to answer to you about it." Your hand is shaking, mouth suddenly unbearably dry. There's a bottle of water in your bag but you don't think you can move right now.

"Dude, it's not every day you walk in on... something like that. I guess I was reasonably shocked. And angry, sure! Angry then and afterwards, because when you left Dad started moping. So I mean. I guess I don't forgive you for that, yet? I'd be pissed off at anyone who hurt my dad, but you're my best friend and I kinda had a feeling you were doing the whole I-am-shit thing in your head like always. I mean dang take a hint, Dave, I think you're the only dumbass left who thinks that way about you."

It feels surreal to hear him, and what he's saying to you. For a moment you're almost completely convinced you're dreaming.

“But to be honest with you, you should be apologising to my dad. And f I'm going to be completely honest with you Dave, I don't think I'm comfortable with either of us seeing you right now.”

Dreaming? Scratch that, you meant to say you're deep in the throes of a nightmare. You're about to protest when you realise you only have one reason why listening to John is going to be a little difficult, one that makes you look a little insane. You hope it's enough to sway him, a little desperately.

“About that.” You clear your throat. “I'm in front of your house.”  
“What?”  
“Your house. Tu casa. Ta maison. Tebya dom. Whatever “your house” is in Chinese.”  
“Shut up, I know what you meant. It was more a 'what the fuck' kind of 'what' than the 'come again' kind.” You think you hear him mutter the word asshole. “I guess you mean my old house. Or my dad's old house.”  
“Old?”  
“Yeah, he moved out a little while after I went off to school.”  
“Oh.”

You're hit with relief and guilt at the same time. You'd left him all alone. And from what John had told you, it sounded like he hadn't taken it too well. You didn't see that coming. You'd always thought James had realised he was better off. Maybe that was wishful thinking on your part.

John lets out an exasperated breath, and you hear the mattress squeak again. Paper shuffling.

“If you wanted to stay here instead of some fancy hotel... I'm not going to say I don't miss you. I'm just. I don't know...”  
“Don't make yourself uncomfortable, it's tot-”  
“Stop doing that! You still act like a wife scorned, I swear to god. I wouldn't have offered if I didn't mean it.”  
“As long as you're okay with it.”  
“Yeah sure. It's been forever, it's a little overdue, right?”  
“Amen.”  
“Okay cool, my room-mate doesn't care, he's leaving for his friend's house for the weekend anyway.”  
“I don't have much stuff with me, so I don't need a lot of space.”  
“Yeah, you can just chill until your flight home, I guess.”

You don't bother to tell him you bought a one-way ticket.


	4. Chapter 4

It takes you 30 minutes to get there, and you have to admit, for student housing it's not bad at all. It's his second to last semester at this university, and hell if you aren't proud (and a little jealous) of that. His room is pretty spacey, and you think you'll manage for a few days, for sure. Dave Strider, rising Big Fucking Deal, sleeping on the floor of a one level, two bedroom house. Your life is just a long, ever lengthening list of Shyamalan twists.

You realise that you have no idea what the fuck to say or do once you see John. He is still taller than you, and you are still compelled to lament over it. He's starting to look more like his father. You wish he wasn't.

“I hardly recognise you in that monkey suit, holy crap.” You snap back to reality, regarding him behind your shades while you try to keep a straight face. It's not one of your fancier ensembles, more like something you wear when you want to look good but you don't want to overdo it. It makes you look sleek, professional, and perhaps a little intimidating, at least to the people who don't know you on a personal level. This deep, dark red that is almost black. Black shirt, red tie. Smuppet-shaped cuff links you had custom made. They're orange. You wear them when you need good luck.

“You know how it is, gotta keep up the This Guy Has A Superiority Complex aura I got going for myself.” The joke garners you a half-smirk on his part, and you start to feel a little better. At least he's not so pissed that he can't interact with you to this extent. “Figured I'd make an occasion outta this whole mess.” You throw the word 'mess' in thoughtlessly, you've always used it that way, but it hits you post-articulation pretty hard. This is a huge, hemorrhaging mess – one you don't have a solution for yet. You're grabbing at strings but it's like there's infinite fucking strings to this piñata filled with shit and like one snickers bar and you hope to every god ever created that you pull the string to the compartment that is not a bucket-load of defecation and misery. Only as mentioned it's a one in fuck knows how many chances that you aren't covered in feces by the end of the day. Who even thought piñatas were a good idea? You have never had good experiences with piñatas.  What the fuck are they all about, anyway? What a violent party game. Let's beat the shit out of this cute multi-coloured llama so we can eat stuff that comes out of it's poor abused body, that'll give us cavities, yeah totally man, good idea. Great idea. Where are you? Right. John is showing you the bathroom.

It's 12:24 am and you're on your phone, talking to Rose. She's happy enough that you got over yourself, and for now you're chatting away like old times. You're glad for the break. It's still a little tense between you and John, but thinking about it, you're actually grateful that he is who he is. That he's letting you stay here. You think maybe going back home is in your best interest after all – whether you put this whole thing to rest or not. You didn't think anything through, as usual... what did you expect? A happy ending just because after a few years you decided to show up again, unannounced? It isn't brave of you. It's a bitch move. Selfish, brattish. You wanted to get your way, you're realising. Sometimes that just doesn't happen, and seeing that is getting easier, day by day.

Rose goes to bed, and you're left to your own devices, unsure if you'll get some sleep tonight. You wish you could at least see Egbert senior before you leave... even a passing glance. Something. What you had hardly feels real anymore, and you hate that so much. As if you didn't have enough tear-jerker material to wrestle with in the suffocating darkness, you start to think about Bro, too. You wonder how different things would have been had he survived the game with you. If your relationship would've changed, or stayed the same. If you'd have still wound up with James those few nights. If you'd have left. You wonder.

You wake up after John, who is watching television and eating green Jell-O. He says if you're hungry that you can just rummage around in the kitchen, and your racoon self does just that, because holy fuck you are suddenly aware of the fact that you haven't eaten in a day, give or take. Two hot pockets and bag of pretzels later, you feel... better. Not good yet. But not so shitty. You sit with your pal for a while, half-watching random shows as they come on. You get to thinking you're focusing on your conversation more than John is, but that's okay with you. Things haven't changed that much, except for the fact that this time, he has a reason to tune you out besides being bored of your rambling.

You bring your laptop into the kitchen and start looking up flight times. By now you've forgotten you didn't tell John about that. So when he walks in, you don't flinch, or try to hide the screen. You're concentrating anyway. Until you hear him behind you, turn to look at him, and see his bewildered expression.

“I thought you bought a round-trip ticket?”  
“Nope.”  
“So, what, you were just gonna...?”

You turn away from him, crack your neck, tap the arrow key purposefully to fill the silence that starts to form. Eventually you figure you should say something.

“I wasn't really thinking.”  
“I guess not.”  
“Yeah, so-”

The door opens. The sound of John's clothes shifting as he moves drifts towards you, makes you stir,  but you don't turn around right away, pretty much frozen.

“Hey son! I was just coming by to-... ah...”

There he is. Jacket-less, looking a bit dishevelled, but for James Egbert that is inimitably more composed than a large chunk of the cosmos. His hair is more salt-and-pepper than you remember, but other than that he hasn't really aged. In his hands are several bags of what you assume are groceries for John. You clear your throat.

“Okay.” It slips out of you, shakily, as your hands come up to straighten your aviators with a hint of a quiver to match. “Okay, I should probably go.” You can't even look at him. John's words attack you inside your own head until they become screaming reminders that you are not as welcome here as you'd like to be. 'I don't think I'm comfortable with either of us seeing you right now'. 'I don't think I'm comfortable with either of us seeing you right now'. 'I don't think I'm comfortable with either of us seeing you right now'.

James looks like he's about to protest as you push out the chair and get up like your ass is on fire, but it's John who interrupts you from doing the only thing you know how to do.

“So you're just going to leave again?!” The exclamation makes you jump and you smack your knee against the leg of the table. You suck in a breath as you jerk around, face reddening. His face is pretty red too, you note, eyebrows furrowed, mouth hanging open slightly, his body bent towards you like he's about to tackle you to the ground. “As many times as I've joked about you being a huge dick, I'm starting to believe it.” He shoves past you, grabs his keys off the rack. “I'm going to go for a damn walk. Or drive. Or something. Just fucking apologise already and stop running away like a little bitch, Jesus Christ!” He disappears for a moment, and materialises again, this time attention on his father. “Sorry for cursing, Dad.” And then he's gone for real.

Your company sighs, sets the groceries on the kitchen counter. Takes his hat off with his back still to you, places it down carefully, and runs a hand through his hair. You're still in the same position even when he rotates to face you – hands on the table, knee bent as dull pain travels up your thigh, making your whole leg tingle uncomfortably. The pounding of your heart is much too loud. You are not prepared for this. Not in the slightest.

“I didn't... I wasn't going to, again?” Your voice is so weak, and it makes you feel pathetic. You just need more time than this, you 're blind-sighted – your intent wasn't to run from here to the airport and forget about everything you came to do, just to talk a walk, breathe, collect yourself. As he floats over, the room seems to collapse into nothingness. You try and straighten up - even take off your sunglasses, knowing full well how much you're exposing yourself in what seems like a thoughtless gesture. But he knows. You want him to know.

He stops when he's just a few inches away, and you notice he's wearing the same tie he wore the first time he took you out. John had been away for the night, so you'd both gone to a small restaurant not too far away. You remember how nervous you were until actual conversation started. How nervous you were afterwards. When you got home you'd crawled into bed with him and stayed there, just being held, until some god awful hour. Too nervous to fall asleep, you'd slunk away to John's room. Which you'd kind of always looked back on and laughed – bitterly – about. The time you were careful, John hadn't come home until later afternoon, and the one time you'd slacked off and fallen asleep...

He doesn't lift his arms, you just lean into him. Eventually he rests his chin on your head and his hands on your back. You won't cry, not like you did the first time you ever hugged him, even though the pain you feel right now seems to be multiplied tenfold compared to that day. You're far too empty, unable to be sad or happy or anything in between. He shouldn't be holding you, and you shouldn't be touching him, but you stay like that for a dragged out while, revelling in it, trying to cancel out the stabs of guilt with alleviation. Your first apology is a whisper against his collarbone, the next against his neck as you pick your head up, retreat a bit. He keeps his arms around you almost stubbornly, if a man like that can be stubborn. If he can have any bad or even slightly bad qualities at all. He's looking at you, really concentrating on you, as he moves a hand to the side of your face, thumb rubbing your cheek, making you feel warm, on pins and needles.

You want to kiss him so badly, but you feel like you need permission. Or well... you don't really deserve that luxury, do you?  
“Jesus, what am I even doing.” It doesn't occur to you that you've spoken out loud. Egbert tenses as you pull further away.

“Come here.” He says, softly, barely audibly, in fact, like he's straining to speak, searching for his words. “Come here!” This time a bit louder, but it rattles you because you've never heard him lose an ounce of himself to emotion, even on the day you left. You let him pull you in again, you let him kiss you, pretty hard. It turns into a series of jabs. You nipping, him nipping, a peck back and forth, sometimes a bit more, sometimes barely touching as you try to keep your breathing steady. None of it is enough. You don't think it will ever be enough, and you don't know how you managed this long trying to evade this.

“I'm not going to leave again,” Every word needs double the effort than is normal for you, everything is too loud or too quiet, and you are feeling so many things that you couldn't even begin to describe anything right now. “I came here for you, to say sorry, I mean, not just that.” You feel yourself shaking again, either in nervousness, humiliation or frustration, you're not quite sure. “I didn't think you'd... well I didn't think, okay? I just didn't, go me, master of Fu-fu... screwing shit up, I am so egregiously spectacular at it...”

“David.”

“S'just Dave, okay.” The last part is caught only by the folds of his shirt. He's petting your head as you will yourself not to cry. You have totally got this.

“I thought you'd forgotten.” His tone of voice is barbed wire around your gut. Oh no. You physically can't do this. You can't be here, forced to face what you'd done. But you don't move. You have to stay this time, and just swallow everything; fear, pride, all of it. You owe him that much. A lot more, in fact.

“Nope.”

His chest caves as he lets out a laughing breath. Wow, you really fucking missed him. And you know what? It is brown sugar, you are so god damn sure of it now. Tobacco, cinnamon, and brown sugar. You want to smile, you do, but you can't. Everything is heavy – your face, your arms. He's straight-faced, brows coming together slightly as if he's trying to assess something. Then you notice the familiar sheen of wetness in his eyes, the slight tension in his jaw. Fantastic job, Dave Strider, you can now proudly tick off “make a grown man cry” on your bucket list. Because there he is, practically coming apart all around you, and it's your fault. There's no escaping that. But you're not going to run away from it. It fucking stings, it feels like someone's twisting the biggest component of an expensive Japanese knife set in you, but you're done playing victim, done squeezing your way out of your problems and hoping for the best. It's so strange, this is almost a complete reversal of that first embrace. Except he has the decency not to bawl like a little baby.

“Where's your fancy napkin?” Your murmur, and his lip quirks upward. He doesn't mind that you're using the cuffs of your dress shirt to dab at his eyes, or he must not, because he doesn't make a move to stop you, or even reach for his handkerchief. You pull him into another hug, still trying to keep yourself as far from tears as possible. You shift your weight from side to side, together, and you feel so calm like that, staring at the refrigerator as you rest your head on his shoulder.

“There's a coffee shop down the block.”  
“I'm so down for that.”  
“'So down'.” You can practically hear him wrinkle his nose.  
“This suit is pure unadulterated deception, I am actually a twelve year old hoodlum.”  
“I knew it all along.”

You decide to walk there, the shop being so close, and he lets you hold his hand after a few minutes of simply traversing side by side, not saying anything. There is still the weight of the situation, bearing down on you just as determinedly as always, keeping you from spurting out the verses of your trademark word-vomit. But once you walk into the establishment, and you're not completely alone with him, the mood lifts enough to accommodate for conversation. There is the solemn recant of your respective life and times, although you don't mention to him everything about the party and the robbery. He's guarded, only giving you the bare minimum. You feel like prodding him for more sometimes, but decide against it. Frankly, it's none of your business, and he has every right to keep his wall up around you. Still, it hurts. By no means is that hurt debilitating, but it's still present, and it makes you tap your fingers and swivel your mug around, mix the coffee and milk and caramel at the bottom together again.

When you get back to the house, he tells you to get in his car, that he'll be right back, he's just going to see if John's back. So you take his keys and slip into the driver's seat of the Sedan – 1999 Cadillac DeVille. Navy blue. Some things don't change, you think, and you pull the seatbelt over your chest lazily, remembering your stuff is still inside before you see James advancing towards you with your bag in his hand. This guy.

You stare as he gets in, as he sits down, as his beautiful hands get to work, settling, finally, on the wheel. His dignified profile is your reward for keeping your eyes shamelessly glued to a man you'd never thought you'd actually end up with. Yet here you are.

He leans over then, a twinkle in his eyes, the likes of which ignites your bones unlike all else. You could kiss him forever. You think you want to try. You'll definitely stay long enough to try, this time. It feels like this can be fixed, and that's a first for you. You're going to fix this. Sometimes you'll want to revert back to old Dave, but you won't because that isn't who you want to be anymore. That's not who you are now.

The house is small, meant for one, maybe two. It's the quintessential bachelor's pad, circa 1955, maybe, and you think you could definitely make do. Something about it attracts you, pulls you in like a volatile tide, probably because it is such a stark contrast to your lifestyle, full of shiny things that beep in the night, loudness, naked bodies, excess. Here you are surrounded by the whispering song of another era, a life you'd never known out of movies and television. 

Tall, tanned and handsome puts a record on and makes you dance with him. With the grace of an inebriated elephant, you step all over his feet, trip, knock into a lamp that you almost break, and he just laughs and laughs, because you're only attempting to foxtrot, not pop and lock your way off the streets. Patient as always, Egbert takes it all in stride, and soon you're even having fun thanks to his expertise. You think he could stand to dip and kiss you maybe a hundred more times than he already has. You expressing the fact makes him laugh again, and he obliges you one last time before the record skips.

He makes you dinner, and you talk again, about everything. About what you're doing now and about John and this and that and everything else. He seems interested in your babblings, movie-related or not, lets you speak at length about your plans, your goals, your accomplishments. Puts a slice of cheesecake in front of you at the end of it and tells you that you look good. You know you're blushing as you dig in to his almost disturbingly delicious confection. How the fuck this man makes everything taste so good is a question you don't really need an answer to.

You help him with the dishes. Hover close to him, trying to do so inconspicuously, but at this point you're not sure you're too convincing. James is content enough, you think, watching him replace the last dish as you shut the utensil drawer loudly. When he shows you the guest bedroom, it darkens your mood. Not one to pass up on whining, you turn around, meet his eyes. And you think he can kind of see what you want to say before you open your mouth, because he stops smiling.

“I don't want to sleep here.” You have never felt more like a child than you do now, but you don't give a shit. You're adults. He shouldn't have brought you here if he wasn't expecting you to pull something like this. He knows you well enough.

“I know.”  
“So then why are you showing me the guest bedroom?”  
“It's more comfortable than the bath tub.”

Your snort incredulously, lace your fingers with his. 

“I want to sleep with you.” It feels lewd and dirty like that, so you elaborate. “I mean. Even if it's just sleeping. Do you even... do you even know how much I miss that,” You're fidgeting, wishing you'd matured emotionally as well as physically in the past few years, but you can't have it all, right? He doesn't answer, just kisses the top of your head with the slow preciseness of a lover, which makes you shiver. You follow him as he steps away. You guess this is him conceding defeat, and you can take the hint.

You think he knows, though, that you didn't plan to sleep. That when you slide in next to him under the comfortable sheets, pants-less, and kiss him, it isn't just a kiss goodnight. You shift on to him, and he lets you. The connection of your lips opens the gates to something a little more desperate. The way his body moves under you makes you embarrass yourself again and again, but you're alone with him, this time, and he's yours; non-judgemental, uncomplaining, indulgent. You unbutton his nightshirt, expose his chest, runs your hands over it like you'll never be able to again. Your fingers glide over every bump, into every dip, across and diagonal and downwards before your lips join in, butterflying his skin with gentle greed. He reciprocates unflinchingly, stroking your cheek, entangling his own fingers in your hair, and you need a haircut for fucks sake because you can feel it tickle the middle of your neck.

Your mouth finds his cock, not yet as hard as yours, but he's older than you after all. You go about it more innocently than you ever have before, because this is about him, not putting up some sexy front, not confirming your own talents to yourself. Expertly, maybe, but you remain languid in your actions, dragging things out, focusing. You love it like this, when you have the time and the will to pace yourself, to taste and feel and breath around him, hum around him, let the vibrations of your incitement move through him like a spark of electricity. He can barely keep himself still; you look up once to catch his expression, and, satisfied, return to the warm, throbbing muscle in your mouth. You relax your throat, flatten your tongue against the shaft and guide your head down until you can't anymore, breathe through your nose as you swallow, retreat. The second deep-throat is quicker as you get used to the exertion. By the third and last, you actually hear him moan. Your jaw is tired, throat already disagreeing with this, so you pull back, stealing a second to catch your breath. Now your hand compensates for your mouth, but you're still generous with the ministrations of your tongue, because let's face it, this is far fucking better than the cheesecake.

You can't swallow it all, so there is a messy line of cum running down the side of your chin that gushed out defiantly. You catch it with your thumb, and it's not the tastiest substance in the world, but you lick the digit clean anyway. As you slip off of him, sitting back on your knees, you smile tiredly, watching his chest heave. He reaches up to pull you down by your arm, stops, snaps the waistband of your briefs. This porn-worthy, shouted moan wrenches free from you, and you want to say something really offensive, like, definitely a clear nomination for your Top Ten Best Insults list, but the way he looks at you changes your mind, and you swing a leg over his middle.

One hand pumps you while the other drifts further down, pays some attention to a part of you that can go without mentioning. You'd be straddling him if you were sitting up, but you're bent low enough to rest your forehead on his shoulder, trying to keep quiet and failing as always, switching between biting your lip, your tongue, his collarbone. You come hard, sob his name into the crook of his neck, hips snapping, jerking into his touch, your dick begging for him until the last second of the last aftershock of the last wave of pleasure that kicks every cell in your body awake.

You wipe his stomach and chest with a tissue, as careful as he has always been with you. His hands massage your thighs. You almost collapse on him, but remember you're kind of filthy in every sense of the word, so with a soft 'one second', you slink into the bathroom to wash your hands and brush your teeth, disposing of the tissues on the way.

He's still awake when you come back, something in his hands. You get under the covers, sidle up next to him, and crane your neck to see what he's offering you. It's your box of cigarettes, the one he confiscated from you years ago. He kept it. He kept an old box of cheap, bad-tasting cigarettes. You kiss him for a long time, and take the box, and throw it across the room.

“I quit.”


End file.
